


there's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you've paid for.

by alyvae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Restraints (Non-Sexual), Season/Series 05 Spoilers, pre-destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyvae/pseuds/alyvae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's having trouble coping with his feelings for a certain angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The door slams and there’s a rustle of fabric, a stuttering footstep, and a low oath beneath the jangle of keys hitting cheap linoleum. Sam rolls over immediately, flicking on the dull bedside lamp, and reaches under his pillow for the handgun.

“Dean?” he demands, relaxing back into the pillow, and glances at the clock. “It’s almost five in the morning—what have you been doing?” He presses his palms into his eyes, rubbing.

“Livin’, Sammy,” Dean slurs, and promptly trips over his bag to hit the bed, arms out. “Shit.”

“We got back from the bar almost six hours ago—you were passed out hard, I had to carry you in the door.” Sam hefts himself up onto one elbow, blinking, and watches Dean right himself, shrug out of his jacket with a little less grace than usually belongs to the stocky man, and toss it onto the strip of floor between the beds. “Did you--?”

“Went back out,” Dean finishes, and flops onto the faded floral comforter, flat on his back, head lolling over the side to grin at Sam. An unmistakable reek of beer hits Sam hard enough to make him blink.

“Dude, you’re really drunk,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose. “You were really drunk when I put you to bed, too.” Sam sits up; his own head is pounding from the drinks. “Were you drinking alone?”

“Nah.” Dean waves his hand, sitting up again, and toes off his boots. “I met this girl, right? And—”

“Another one?”

“Yeah, why not? So she’s this hot little brunette—”

“Dean—” Sam sighs, and his mouth tastes bad. “That’s the fifth girl in like, four days. You’re gonna end up with herpes or something.”

“I waste demons every day, you think I can’t handle a little intimacy?” Dean’s eyes look blurry from the alcohol; he’s swaying just sitting. Sam’s head has begun to ache quite fiercely.

“You know what, man? Whatever,” he mutters, settling back into the pillows. “You wanna sleep with everything that moves, go for it, but we have to be up in two hours to interview that med examiner, so I’m going to try and ice the hangover.”

“So your head hurts, grow up,” Dean snaps, all good humor gone. “I’m getting real tired of your bellyachin’, Sam—what the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing!” Sam throws the covers off again, settling his feet on the ground and bracing himself on them. “Dean, just because I don’t want to stay out drinking and having sex all the time—”

“Then don’t!” Dean pulls off his shirt, and rifles angrily through his bag for something. “Nobody’s forcing you to hang out with me—”

“I go to bars with you to make sure you don’t get hurt!” retorts Sam, running a hand through his hair. “Ever since Gardnerville—”

“Can you forget about Nevada for like two second? Christ, Sam—”

“I had to sneak you out of the ER!” he roars, standing up and picking up his phone from habit—a missed call from Bobby. He’ll deal with that later. “They had you cuffed to the bed because you punched out two nurses and—”

“I told you, I was drunk—”

“Drunk is not the same thing as had alcohol poisoning; you were on IV fluids—”

“—and they were trying to tie me down—”

“—had to flee the state because they were going to put you in rehab.” Dean yanks the flask from his bag and takes a hard swig, grunting a little when it burns. “Are you still drinking? Seriously?” Sam paces furiously between his bed and the bathroom, which  
still smells a little like the last time Dean puked from a hangover—which was this morning, actually. “Look, Dean, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think you might be—”

“Don’t you talk to me about addiction,” snarls Dean, and he pulls on a fresh t-shirt. “You started the goddamn apocalypse from your addiction to demon blood and you’ve got an issue with me drinkin’ alcohol?” Dean laughs, but it’s harsh and mirthless; his eyes are cold. “You go ahead and take on that M.E. for yourself tomorrow. Don’t let my irresponsibility get in your stick-up-the-ass way, Sammy.” He shoves his arms through the faded leather jacket.

“Dean…”

The door slams. Sam stops in the middle of the room, head throbbing, and groans, rubbing at his eyes. With an exhalation of resignation, Sam digs through his bag for a toothbrush and toothpaste, and heads into the bathroom to wash the regret from his mouth.

\--

The sun crests over the tiny college town as Dean slogs blindly through the icy slush, tugging the jacket tighter around himself. He’s not walking in a straight line and his mind is runnier than the frozen rain cutting off the feeling in his fingers, but he doesn’t give a rat’s ass. He yanks the flask from his pocket and upends it into his mouth—a few drops of whiskey hit his tongue, just enough to send a spike of nausea through his gut. Dean staggers, flask hitting the ground with a clink, and his knees strike just a second later. Eighty-six dollars and fifty-two cents worth of assorted alcohol pours from his stomach into the snow and a fresh-faced young couple both wearing college hoodies jog past, exchanging judgmental glances, and the guy accidentally kicks a bit of roadside ice his way.

“Keep on running, asshats,” Dean moans, heaving one more time—nothing comes up. The mess is purely acid and beer, so it flows down the storm drain in no time. He raises hands dripping with dirty water to his forehead and gasps for breath past the pain in his stomach.

“Hey, uhh… are you okay, man?” A man in a dark BMW pulls into the parking lot just in front of him, a 7-Eleven, then looks back at Dean, who bares his teeth in a near-feral grin.

“Doin’ great, thanks.”

“You look really sick—do you need a ride somewhere? Like, home? The hospital?” The guy gets out of his car, his face wrinkled in concern; he’s wearing a business suit, but he looks younger than Dean. He takes a couple of steps over, and Dean forces himself to his feet.

“Dude, I said I’m fine,” he says hoarsely, and then the dizziness gets the better of him and he tips, hands slamming back onto the hood of the luxury car. The guy hops around the front of the car and lends a hand, which Dean vehemently refuses.

“Stop!” he snarls. “Get your hands off me—Jesus Christ, you fucking homo. I tripped, you don’t have to feel me up.” The guy raises his arms in surrender.

“I’m sorry. Look, let me at least—”

“I’ll take him home.” That deep rumble is unmistakable, and Castiel is suddenly beside Dean, who clenches his hands into fists. “My apologies about your car.” Dean looks; there is a sizeable dent in the pretty black exterior.

“No,” the guy waves his hand. “Not a problem. Just try to keep an eye on him, okay? I had a brother who got hit by a car when he was drunk. Died after a lengthy hospital stay.”

“Thank you for your patience,” Castiel replies, and grabs Dean by the elbow. He tries to shake him loose, but the angel’s grip is tight enough to break bones. “Come on.”

They walk quickly away from the parking lot in the direction from which Dean was coming. Cas keeps him from weaving too dramatically; Dean feels like he’ll pass out any second, and he doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s grateful that he has someone to help him stay on his feet.

“I didn’t need you to do that,” he growls at Castiel. “Where did you even come from? How did you find me?”

“Sam prayed to me,” Cas replies lowly, his eyes flitting across the street to check for any bystanders. “I’m going to take you back to him. He’s worried about you.”

“I don’t need you to walk me back to Mommy,” Dean sneers. “Let go of me.” He wrenches himself free and plants his feet on the sidewalk. His head feels as though someone took a pickaxe to it and he wants to vomit up his intestines.

“Dean, you’re miles from the motel.” He stops, and turns; his face is haggard, looking even more worn than the last time Dean saw him. He has a bit of dried blood beneath his hairline, and his tie is looser than usual. “Sam wants you safe. He sounded worried enough that I flew in from Egypt, where I had a lead on finding my father, so do not test me.” He raises two fingers to Dean’s forehead and there’s a flash of light.  
They appear inside the room almost on top of Sam, who trips and ends up on his unmade bed. He’s dressed up, which—once Dean finds his bearings—prompts the question.

“Is it time already?”  
“Yeah, but…” Sam glances at the clock on the wall. “You’re in no shape to come with me, man. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You’ve been gone for a long time.” He turns to the angel watching Dean with rapt attention, as if worrying he’ll topple at the slightest provocation. “Thanks, Cas.”

He inclines his head. “Sam. Dean.” Then a flurry of wings and he’s gone, and it’s the two brothers alone in the room.  
“I’ll go with you,” Dean mutters, and puts his head in his hand. “Where’s my suit?”

“Let me cover this one, all right?” Sam crosses his arms. “You look like Hell.”

“And how would you know what Hell looks like, Sam? You ever been to the pit?” The anger in Dean’s belly replaces the lack of food and fuels him again, burning the thick pain from his forehead. He looks up, glaring darkly at the taller man. “I didn’t think so.”

Sam raises his hands to placate. “Look, dude, it’s an expression, and I didn’t mean—just go to sleep, all right? I’ll get the info on the stiff and bring it back once you’ve gotten some rest.” He grabs his coat and moves for the door, then turns at the last second to appraise his older brother, who sways violently in place clutching his stomach. The fight in him is gone as soon as it arrived and he feels his legs giving. It’s nearly nine in the morning.

“Try not to kill yourself while I’m gone.”

\--

Dean sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning often enough to dry-heave over the side of the bed. He has a splitting headache and his throat is on fire. He’s not positive when Sam returns, but at some point, water is being coaxed into his mouth, which tastes worse than almost anything Dean has ever experienced.

It’s almost a miracle, but when Dean finally wakes at ten-thirty that night, he feels almost human, again. His head has resigned itself to a deep but manageable ache and all he feels is gnawing, unrelenting hunger. Sam sits at the little table poring over his laptop, but he glances up when Dean stirs.

“Sam,” he grunts, and blinks. “Son of a bitch—how long was I out for?”

“Over twelve hours,” Sam replies, watching him from the corner of his eye and pretending to do research. “You feel any better?”

“I’m starving.” He gets up, wobbling a little, then rights himself and heads straight for the fast-food bag on the opposite bed, tearing into it. Inside is a beautiful, foil-wrapped lump smelling just like extra bacon, extra onions.

“Hey, I wouldn’t start off with that,” he warns, but Dean has half of it shoved in his mouth before the sentence is finished. Immediately he knows Sam was right; his long-empty stomach protests sharply and the beef weighs heavy inside him as soon as it lands. Dean winces, setting down the burger, and sinks onto Sam’s bed.

“Sammy, I think I’m sick or something.” Sam’s eyes bug out a little and he leans back in his chair, brow creased.

“You’re kidding. Dean, you aren’t sick.”

“I’ve been asleep all day and I’ve pretty much puked my guts out—”

“After being shitfaced all night,” Sam completes the thought incredulously. “How stupid do you think I am?”

Dean gets to his feet and peels out of the sweat-drenched shirt he’s wearing—it’s got spots of sick on it. He can hardly remember anything from last night except the taste of whiskey, a hot, voluptuous body, slick—

“I’m going out.” He finds his third shirt of the day and pulls it on. It fits a little more loosely than he’s expecting, which is odd.

“Going out where?” Sam stands up and shuts the lid of his laptop. “You’re not drinking again, not after last night. If Cas hadn’t come along—”

“I would have been fine!” snaps Dean. “I’m not gonna drink, Sam, I’m just going out. I don’t need to be babysat by my little brother.” He turns his back, ashamed at the sudden tightness in his jeans. “Look, I’ll even agree to a curfew, all right? I’ll be back by midnight.”

“Make it eleven-thirty,” Sam mutters. “If you’re not back, Dean, I swear to God…”

Dean flips him the bird and yanks on the old green jacket, also a little big on his frame, and stomps out into the clear, cold night.


	2. Chapter 2

The bar is wild. It’s a Friday night and fifty-cent drinks for ladies, so there’s easy pickings. Dean weaves through the crowd on the dance floor, sidling up to a buxom blonde leaning over the bar. She glances at him and smiles.

“Hey there,” he says, grinning. “Can I buy you a drink?” She tosses her hair.

“Not that great a stunt when they’re only a couple’a quarters,” she teases. Her lips are ruby-red against the peaches-and-cream complexion of the rest of her face. Intelligent gray eyes watch him. “But sure. Cosmo.”

“A Cosmo for the lady,” Dean orders the burly barkeep, who grunts his acknowledgement and starts to pour it. “What’s your name?”

“Phoebe,” she replies. “And you?” The tender slides the drink across the bar and Dean snags it, passing it gently to the woman. She takes a sip, studying his face.

“Detective Bill Buckner,” he says after a moment’s hesitation, and then slaps the bar. “Whatever’s on tap, thanks.”

“So, Detective,” she smirks, “what brings you to town?”

“Nothing to worry you, sweetheart,” he says, and takes a deep swallow of the foamy beer placed before him. It’s ice-cold and hits the ache deep in his chest, numbing it. “Just a little gang violence—but don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.”

\--

Dean fucks her unfeelingly just twenty-three minutes later—a personal record—completely apathetic but instinctively angling up deeply into her. Screwing—something natural, base. He doesn’t have to think about it, just blindly thrust for absolution. Phoebe whines with pleasure, back arching, and Dean hears himself whispering dirty nothings into her ear, to which she responds beautifully. Her back is streaked with sweat as she rocks back onto him, grinding down and undulating her body. He comes, relieved, into the condom and she groans, clenching around his now-oversensitive cock, and orgasms for the third time since the sex began. She falls down, panting, and rolls over to look at him. Her breasts are heaving.

“You last awhile,” she pants, and then giggles. Dean just grits his teeth and tucks himself back into his boxers. It took a whopping fifteen minutes, which borders on too long. Apparently, it didn’t bother Phoebe because her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

“I wanted to make it incredible for you, baby.” The words are dull-sounding, even to him. He sits heavily on the bed beside her and then lies down, same as always, same position on the bed and same curves pressed up against him, same hair across his stomach but blonde this time. She snuggles up into him, yawning.

“I’m really glad I met you.”

“So am I, beautiful.” She turns to gaze plaintively up at him.

“You aren’t gonna leave before morning, are you?” She flushes deep red. “I didn’t… I don’t want this to be a one-night stand. It sounds stupid, but I feel a connection between us.”

Because I orchestrated it, sweetheart, he thinks bitterly. I’ve perfected the seduction of a woman in the past few months. You feel a connection that I created between us so I could bring myself off inside something hot, wet, tight. Like a fucking animal.

“Of course not. I’m right here.”

As Phoebe drifts off into post-coital sleep, Dean gazes up at the cracked, stucco ceiling of her apartment. His mouth is dry from the beer, and his stomach is grumbling angrily. Then he catches a whiff of something and he almost throws up, again. It’s something that snarls in his sinuses and makes him gag. It smells sticky, rotten, and it tightens his belly until he seriously has to worry about making it to the bathroom on time. His eyes move carefully over the room—demons don’t strictly have to smell like sulfur, do they? Rotten eggs would be preferable over this, this… whatever is making the back of his throat taste sour.

He shifts his position and Phoebe rolls over to her left so only Dean’s hand is trapped beneath her. As she does so, she curls her legs to her chest and the smell intensifies. He wrinkles his nose and sits up, careful not to move his hand, and examines her—well, her naked ass.

All Dean sees, other than the body part he became acquainted with approximately twenty minutes ago, now, is drying shine down her thighs—her arousal and eventual enjoyment of Dean’s ministrations.

That’s it, he realizes, and in one quick movement removes his hand from beneath Phoebe’s head, covering his nose and mouth.

But the smell is no different than before—it’s as if the only thing that’s changed is Dean’s now noticed how revolting the odor truly is, the smell of a woman’s natural lubrication that’s dried onto his dick and cooled on the sheets. He wants to bury his head in a pillow and smell only fabric softener and Phoebe’s strawberry conditioner, but he can’t, the scent is going to overpower him. He glances at his watch, and sees that he has a little bit of time to kill before he’s due back at the motel. The current plan, because dear Sammy doesn’t seem to trust him anymore, is to arrive promptly five minutes late. Enough to make him worry, but not enough to have him bring down all the forces of Heaven—mainly, angel patrol.

Dean’s stomach really does tighten at that. He clutches it, trying to ignore the sudden feeling, but it’s useless. He pushes it to the back of his mind and brings forth his thirst. He has to fix that, first. God, he wants a beer.

The chick’s fridge is well-stocked with lager, so he pulls two and downs the first one in one go, then pops open the second and chucks the empty into the recycling bin behind the counter. The alcohol feels good inside of him, makes him warm, and whatever he’d been feeling from thinking of Cas is gone, now. He can return to answer Sam’s questions, easy, and no angel will be any the wiser.

“Think again.” Dean whirls, hands up to defend himself, and sees Castiel standing in his stiff way at the entrance to the kitchen. 

“Shit, Cas—have you been here the whole damned time?” The angel’s eyes are bigger than usual, glittering with what looks like concern.

“No. I just arrived.”

“Well, tell Sam that I still have—” he checks his watch, “ten minutes left. He can suck it until then.” Dean moves to the corner, as far from Cas as he can get. His dick, slightly chafed from the regular stimulation in these past few weeks, rubs uncomfortably at his jeans. Why the fuck is he hard again already? He briefly considers phoning Sam and asking for another hour out—he needs to get laid, again. Maybe Phoebe will be up for round two.

“I did not come because Sam asked me to,” Cas reveals quietly. “I came because I am worried about you, Dean.” He takes a step forward, and Dean presses back into the counter. He feels suffocated.

“Dude, give me some space,” he forces through his clenched teeth, and the angel stops, looking around.

“When we defined personal space, you told me that two feet was adequate.” Castiel looks genuinely concerned. “This is at least eight-and-three-quarters, and yet you seem uncomfortable. Have I been violating our agreement regularly?” Dean sighs, feeling a headache cutting through the drunken haze in his skull, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“No, it’s… you’re fine. Sorry.” Dean wishes his heart would stop thundering so, like it’s about to burst. His stomach is tossing again and he leans over the sink, gasping.

“Dean, are you ill?” Castiel asks immediately, coming closer but still maintaining at least twice his usual distance. Dean shakes his head violently, but the beer comes up anyway. He feels liquid slide in reverse past his teeth for the hundredth time this month, his stomach rolling and heaving. His legs wobble as he straightens, trying to clear his head, and it takes most of his willpower just to remain upright.

Castiel reaches slowly past him, twisting something, and cool water comes out to wash away the amber that fills the bottom of the stainless steel sink, and then murmurs, “Look at me, Dean.”

He doesn’t want to. God dammit, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to look the angel in the eyes because his stomach will get that feeling again and his head will go light and oh God he wants to fuck Phoebe into oblivion, not have to bite his lip to keep from shouting something embarrassing as he finds release—

He tears his eyes from his own hands if not to halt the train wreck of noise filling his head. Dean meets his eyes if only for a second, just to prove that he can but not long enough that Cas can read him.

“You’ve been different lately,” murmurs Castiel finally. “Is there something you need to speak with me about?”

“No,” Dean says coldly. “Look, thanks for the ride this morning, but—”

“When was the last time you ate something?” Cas tilts his head to the side and his face has that stupid innocence to it, innocence that has no fucking right to be on the face of a millennia-old angel wearing a battered trench-coat and a faded tie that’s too loose and five-o-clock shadow that’s months old.

“That’s none of your damn business.” 

“I may not be particularly good at being human, but I do know that you need to eat, drink, and sleep,” he continues on, ignoring Dean’s protestation. “I also know just from looking that you have been neglecting to do all three of those things. As I understand it, people suffering from—”

“If one more person calls me a goddamned alcoholic—”

“—depression often exhibit the same signs. Why are you depressed, Dean?”

“Pick a reason!” Dean throws up his arms, and then glances back toward the bedroom. Phoebe does not appear in the doorway to wonder why a strange man in a dirty coat is standing in her kitchen, but he makes an effort to lower his voice. “My parents are dead, my brother’s the vessel of Satan, the entire world depends on me to fight its monsters because I’m the only one crazy enough to do it—”

“Those have nothing to do with it,” Cas retorts. “You’ve grown calluses against those. There’s something rawer, deeper—”

“First the holy tax accountant and now a fuckin’ therapist—gee, Cas, is there anything you can’t do?” spits Dean, venom dripping from his tone. Cas actually flinches and regret hits him hard in the gut, almost enough to bring up whatever the hell is possibly left inside his stomach.

“I can read humans,” replies Castiel darkly. “I can read you, Dean, because as complicated as you think you are, you’re just another dirty piece of meat who happens to have gotten tangled up in a destiny too big for him. My condolences for your pain, but ripping yourself apart is one of the most childish—”

“I’d love to see you do it better,” Dean snarls, and winds up for a punch, but there’s a rush of wind and Castiel is behind him and has arms wrapped around him in a bear-hug, effectively ruining any defenses he may have had.

“I will not condone this recklessness,” Cas breathes harshly into his ear. “You’ll sooner break your hand on my face than cause me a fraction of the pain you are dealing yourself.”

He feels the light-headedness in slow motion, feels Castiel’s fingertips digging into his forehead like a bad migraine, before actually physically falling into his arms, everything going brilliantly white.

\--

“…been eating?”

“…that I’ve seen… vomiting almost constantly…”

“…any sleep in…”

“…hasn’t, unless he’s passed out drunk.”

One of those voices is definitely Sam and the other one is definitely Cas. Dean cannot seem to bring himself to open his eyes, but the first thing of which he is aware, besides the splintering headache, is the proximity of his two best friends in the world. He sorely wishes they would leave him alone in dark silence, at least until he can breathe without the sound chafing his ears.

“Thank you, again,” Sam sighs at last, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a dry palm rubbing over his face.

“It was no burden on me, Sam,” Castiel replies quietly; Dean gets a better sense of the room, now. Sam stands at the foot of the bed and Castiel just to Dean’s left, by his head. “I worry for him as well. He is not himself.” 

“Can’t you talk to him?”

“I doubt he will be any more open with me than he has been with you.” Dean shifts a little, into a more comfortable position; what the hell are they talking about, anyway?

“Look… it’s none of my business, but…” Sam swallows loudly, and laughs with no amusement. “It’s definitely your business, so… is there any way—?”

“I think it unwise to discuss it now,” Cas interrupts sharply. “I’ll knock him out for a few more hours, but beyond that he needs to eat, and drink water. My healing can only go so far.” Dean opens his eyes, then, trying to sit up past the pain in his head, but all he sees is two fingers before he’s gone again, back into the blackness inside his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, somewhat drunken ramble taking place inside Dean's head.

He drifts every so often, memories resurfacing. For close to a month, now, Dean has been a mess. The only time he can admit it is deep in himself, where no one can possibly hear him, but his mood swings, his drinking, banging every female in sight… there’s one common denominator, and Dean didn’t finish high school but even he can identify it.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, fills his thoughts. He’s there, silently watching, in mundane things like hunting and picking up peanut-butter at the convenience store down the road or, God help him, sex dreams.

Like a fucking teenager, Dean has woken from so many wet dreams to be rutting desperately into his bed-sheets, getting off for a quick release that promises oceans more satisfaction than any orgasm he’s experienced with a girl in years.

Even in his own subconscious, Dean cannot stop himself from having these thoughts. As much as he hates himself and denies any attraction, it’s so very there that if Sam hasn’t noticed by now, he’s worried. He’s straight, Dean Winchester is straight, but he’s so gay for Cas that it might actually kill him. Dean knows, he fucking knows how disgusting he’s being—drunk and unwashed and throwing up and angry, he’s just so angry all the damn time, but he can’t stop. The only thing he can possibly do to solve this is unthinkable and horrifying and he wants it more than anything: to lose himself in the contours of Castiel’s skin, to lick the sweat from the hollow of his throat and bruise those lips with rough kisses and to feel, to lose himself in passion and love and—

Great god, he sounds like a woman. Even gay guys don’t talk like that, he doesn’t think, but Dean isn’t gay, he’s not, he’s—

He just wants to make love to an angel. Right.

Son of a bitch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing. Quotations from Chapter 9 of "Fifty Shades of Gray" by E.L. James and from the show itself, Supernatural.

Dean yanks at his restraints, teeth bared in a growl. Cas is frowning at a book, seated at the tiny table. Dean grunts, pulling harder, but the rope burns at his wrists. There is no escape, and besides—with Cas here, he’s not going further than a foot before being knocked unconscious again. He slumps, panting and feeling weaker than he’s ever done, and watches the angel more closely.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he mutters finally. “You can read English, can’t you?” Castiel looks up and his brow is creased, lips pursed in a frown.

“I do not understand the plot of this book,” he says at length. Dean clears his throat; “dry” would be an understatement for the vast desert upon his tongue.

“Can I get something to drink?” Cas inhales, as if remembering, and stands up, pouring a cup of water from the pitcher on the table. He brings it over, putting it rather more roughly than needed to Dean’s lips.

“What—let me drink it myself, just untie one hand,” Dean protests, turning his head away.

“Too risky,” Cas replies. “Relax; I’m not going to drown you.” Dean sucks his upper-front teeth, as vulgar a gesture as he can make with no hands, and parts his lips just barely. Castiel tips water into his parched mouth, flooding it, and Dean is ashamed of the way he suckles desperately. When was the last time he drank water?

“Take it easy.” He removes the cup, now half-full, and Dean swallows the last drops remaining in his mouth. How pathetic he is, trussed up like some low-life demon and being fed and watered by a servant of God. Dean wants to go to sleep and escape this pain.

“Look, can’t you untie me for five minutes?” Dean asks, almost begging. “I can’t even feel my hands. I can’t sleep like this, dude, and my head is killing me.”

“I will knock you out again, then,” he offers politely, and raises the fingers. Dean flinches back.

“No, Cas—no, I just want to be treated like a human being,” he forces through gritted teeth. “What’s next, Bobby’s panic room?”

“Next would be a formal rehabilitation clinic.” Castiel’s voice is quite easy, perfectly normal as if he’s commenting on the weather. “You are unfit to be hunting when you are constantly inebriated, hungover or in the act of sexual intercourse.” Dean blanches at the crudeness coming from Castiel’s lips.

“Way to just put that one out there,” he mutters, and then suspicion grows. “Wait a minute—you haven’t been watching me, or anything?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“I have been alive since the dawn of time, Dean. I have seen much procreation.”

“That wasn’t the damn question.” Dean fights the bonds again, struggling to sit up. “You haven’t seen me… you know… doin’ it with a girl?”

Something strange happens to the angel’s face, then. It twitches, but it’s not a muscular spasm or anything, it’s almost like he… flew. He flew and then returned, like he blinked out of existence and back in again in just a hair of a second.

“Yes.”

“What?” Dean splutters, and suddenly everything regarding his hangover is unimportant in the face of this new information. “You watched me?”

“It was unintentional on my part,” Cas mutters, and to Dean’s shock, he blushes. “As soon as I realized, I left, but… yes. I have seen you in somewhat compromising circumstances.”

Dean’s skull cracks against the wooden headboard, intensifying the headache, but he just stares in shock and humiliation at the ceiling. The two men sit in silence for a long moment, neither willing to break it, and Dean feels heat radiating from his face.

“Perhaps I should read to you?” suggests Castiel after a moment, and he gets up, pacing over to the table. “You could assist me in understanding the author’s true intent of the story.”

“Fine, yeah,” Dean mutters, grasping onto the change of subject like a life-preserver. “What book is it?” Cas frowns at the cover.

“Though it seems to have nothing to do with color, the title is Fifty Shades—”

“Oh-kay, that’s enough of that book.” Dean swallows hard. “Find another book, any other book.”

“This was what was in the bedside table,” Cas motions to the nightstand, and Dean feels a little bit ill at the thought of what that book most likely caused on the bed beneath him.

“Don’t these places usually come with Bibles?” Dean asks weakly. In all honesty, he’d rather listen to Cas read that one aloud than anything regarding porn.

“The Bible?” he scoffs. “Hardly the Word of God. It was more of a rough draft than anything serious, but you apes just went with it.” Dean sighs, unwilling to have a theological discussion with an angel while he’s this hungover. All Dean wants to do is go back to sleep or drink or fuck something not angelic. He closes his eyes at the silence, the only noise in the room for a very long time being the occasional flip of a page and Cas’s steady breathing.

“I twirl my tongue around the tip again, and he flexes his hips. His eyes are open now, blistering with heat. His teeth are clenched as he flexes again, and I push him deeper into my mouth, supporting myself on his thighs. I feel his legs tense beneath my h  
hands. He reaches up and grabs—”

“Cas!” Dean sits up so fast the world spins a little. His wrists may come detached but he doesn’t care. The angel in his stupid trench-coat sits at the table, black book clutched in his hands, and looks up at Dean innocently. “I thought I told you not to read that.”

“There is nothing on television,” he replies, “and this room is deafeningly quiet.”

“You couldn’t… you know, make conversation?” Dean is desperately trying to ignore the echoes of that gravelly voice inside his head that does something deep in his belly and makes his cock twitch. God, that description of the blowjob and the way his voice drags out of his throat, deep and hot and—

No. This is getting way too close to gay territory, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek so hard that blood begins to drip into his mouth, effectively cutting off any semblance of arousal to his groin. The stiffness slowly peters out until he’s mercifully flaccid inside his boxers.

“You seem agitated,” Castiel says finally, and cocks his head to the side.

“Do I?” Dean shoots back, and glances up. It’s just rope tying him here. Maybe, maybe, he can worm his way out, but he needs Cas distracted.

“Was it the reading?” he asks curiously, and glances back down at the page.

What Dean is about to do makes him want to curl up and die, but he needs to get out of here before the room is too stifling. It’s hot and cramped and he needs some air or a girl to fuck or something. Plus he needs to piss, soon.

“No, uh,” he clears his throat. “I liked it. Could you… you know? Keep going?” He wants to die of humiliation, have God smite him right then, but Cas simply beams.

“Oh, excellent,” he says. “I was beginning to think that I was of no assistance. Of course.”

And there began the most excruciating half-hour of Dean Winchester’s life. He listened with one ear almost involuntarily, trying to ignore both the low and rasping descriptions of very explicit sex and the discomfort in his crotch, wrists working desperately to free themselves without notice from the thick, frayed rope knotting him to the headboard. It’s not even that the porn is hot—it’s badly written, even to Dean’s uncultured ears—but it’s coming from Cas, who’s just sitting there reading calmly to him, and he doesn’t want to feel so hot and sweaty but he can’t help it anymore and renews his efforts, struggling as violently as he can without attracting any attention to his plans.

“I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing…” Dean grimaces, trying to block it out, but it’s really hard—not to mention he’s really hard, too. He almost has one hand a fraction of the way out—at this rate, he might be out in a couple of hours. Dammit.

“He moves his finger in a wide circle, stretching me, pulling at me, his tongue mirroring his actions, round and round, I groan. It is too much… My body begs for relief, and I can no longer deny it. I let go, losing all cogent thought as my orgasm seizes me, wringing my insides again and again. Holy fuck. I cry out, and the world dips and disappears from view as the force of my climax renders everything null and void.”

Dean swallows and pulls, wriggling his hands fervently, desperate to get out of the bonds before another word falls from those stupid lips. His cock is visibly straining at his pants now, and he just prays Cas doesn’t look over.

The door opens and Dean just flat out sags onto the bed. Sammy walks in, eyebrow raised, just in time for the zinger:

“…and he thrusts hard once more and groans as he reaches his climax, pressing himself into me. Then he stills, his body rigid. Collapsing on top of me, I feel his full weight forcing me into the mattress. I pull my tied hands over his neck and hold him the best I can. I know in that moment that I would do anything for this man. I am his.”

Sam clears his throat. “Am I… um, interrupting?” Dean’s face turns scarlet. Cas looks up, wide blue eyes full of innocent surprise.

“Ah, Sam!” he greets him, grinning. “Dean and I were reading—”

Sam raises a hand and halts him. “I don’t want to know.” Dean glares determinedly at the ground and he wouldn’t be surprised if steam was pouring from his ears. Sam takes a couple steps, dropping his duffel onto the floor, and leans in, taking Dean’s arm firmly in his hand.

“Thought so,” he mutters, and Dean resists the urge to spit at him. “Doesn’t matter how much porn you listen to, dude—you aren’t getting out.”

Cas actually looks hurt. “You weren’t listening?”

“Enough,” Dean snaps; he listened to that shit for better than thirty minutes and got exactly nowhere. Besides, his bladder has become increasingly insistent in that time and he’s ready to alleviate that. “I gotta pee, Sammy, let me out.” Sam raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not stupid.”

“And I’m not kidding,” he says tersely. “I had a lot to drink and I have to pee. Unless one of you wants to—” He makes a stunted gesture with his numb hands. “Then you gotta untie me.”

Sam and Cas glance at each other. “Fine.” Sam flips his knife, fumbling for a second with the ties, and then blood and prickles rush into Dean’s hands and they fall unceremoniously onto his lap. He clenches his hands a few times, working feeling back into t  
them, and swings his legs off the bed with a heavy thump.

Sam actually walks him to the damned bathroom before calling over his shoulder for Cas, who stands and joins him in the doorway.

“Are you kidding, do I need a damn audience?” snaps Dean, but the urge is really pressing and he begins to undo the button anyway. Thankfully his little problem has fixed itself since Sam barged in and he doesn’t have to worry about that right now—a small blessing.

“I don’t really want to look at my brother’s junk, so…” Sam bows out. “It’s all you, Castiel.” The angel rocks onto his heels, hands clasped behind his back, and Dean stares at him.

“Dude, turn around.”

Cas glances over his shoulder, presumably to ask Sam’s permission, and then inclines his head. “Of course.” He turns around and Dean sighs, doing his business quickly and trying to ignore the trench-coated back in the doorway. He finishes up, and apparently Cas considers the lack of noise a green light because he turns and his eyes nearly bug out from his head.

“Dean, I—”

“Cas,” he hisses, and turns his back, shoving himself back into his pants and zipping up furiously. “You can’t just—”

“My apologies, Dean,” Cas says, and from the sound of it he’s turned around again.

“I don’t swing that way, okay? I play for the other team,” Dean forces past a locked throat, laughing, but it’s strained and he stops awkwardly. Cas slowly, slowly turns around again, and stands stiffly, watching.

“Dean—”

“Hey guys?” Sam calls loudly, and there’s a rustle, and then he appears in the doorway, gun ready. “Just returned that call from Bobby, and he’s got a lead—I’m gonna go waste this thing, once and for all.” He turns to Cas and claps him on the shoulder. Castiel obviously has no clue how to respond, and he sort of takes it, swaying with the force.

“You look after him. Just—make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.” His eyes level with Dean’s. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes, tops. Cas, if I’m not back by then, let Dean go after me. I’ll pray the information.”

Cas inclines his head again, looking uncomfortable. “I understand. Good luck, Sam.”

“I’ll see you in less than an hour, Dean,” Sam says quietly, and then he gives a meaningful look to Cas, who inhales sharply and nods, very stiff. There’s the sound of a door creaking, a gun being cocked, and then it slams shut and silence settles over the tiny motel room.

“I think it best if you eat something and then rest,” Cas says coolly, sounding detached all of a sudden. Dean’s hands fall to his sides.

“Fine, yeah,” Dean sighs, exhausted. He’s sick of dealing with whatever awkwardness is in this relationship—he just wants his friend back. “What’s for eats?”

“Sam and I feel that you would benefit from taking it easy—”

Dean slams his hand against the sink and feels it give a little, popping free slightly from the wall. His fist burns. “I don’t need a goddamn babysitter, Cas, I just need to be on my own for a while—”

“And I think you have proven on a few occasions, now, that you are not capable of being on your own.” His voice is dark, harsh. “Believe me, I would much rather be searching for my father, but instead I am sitting in this motel room with an ungrateful, alcoholic ape determined to defy me.”

His body always seems to grow with his anger, and he swells with his rage, eyes deepening and almost glowing blue-hot. Dean does not shrink, though, and instead stalks forward, for the first time not horny or craving a drink or confused. He’s just angry. This is such a relief from the soft pity with which Cas has been treating him for a week now.

“Know what your problem is, Cas?” he snarls. “You’re so full of yourself. You think you’re this high and mighty being, God’s child, but you’re just an old man trapped inside some poor son of a bitch, wearing a dirty coat and pining for daddy.”

Cas flicks a hand and Dean flies back, smacking his head against the mirror. A crack appears, and instantly regret fills Castiel’s eyes. He moves forward, raising his palm as if to heal, but Dean raises his fists, threatening.

“You gonna kill me, Castiel?” His voice is mocking, and somewhere inside of himself Dean is horrified by the words coming from his lips, the wrath with which he acts. The name of this angel comes slithering disgustingly from his mouth and he almost spits it at the ground.

“If you ever speak to me that way again, I will not hesitate to strike you,” he says, voice radiating cold power. It feels good. Dean feels sick to his stomach, though, and it has nothing to do with drinking. It’s a familiar, almost comforting thing, and he clings to it.

“I’ve had to live without a real father for most of my life,” Dean continues icily, ignoring the part of him saying stop that don’t what are you doing you’re hurting him. “Get over it. You’re like a baby in a trench-coat.”

Cas sucks in his cheeks, jaw working, and for a moment he says nothing. Then with the sound of wings he’s appeared just a breath away from Dean, his power impressing, and Dean finds it hard to breathe again.

“I am not intimidated, nor am I offended. Your coping mechanisms for this depression are—”

Dean’s not even aware of it, but suddenly he’s swinging full force at that pretentious, self-righteous son of a bitch’s face and he doesn’t care that he’s about to punch the only person in the world who has ever given a damn about him without familial obligation.

Cas catches his wrist and Dean feels his bones shudder and his skin bruise immediately, pain layering over the abrasions from the rope. “Dean.”

Their eyes meet for longer than seems necessary but Dean feels as if the second he breaks the gaze he will fall away, back into Hell, spiraling into dark greens and swirling brown-blacks, being strung up on a rack again and feeling himself flayed into pieces again and it won’t take him thirty years or even twenty this time because the very second he is placed upon that rack he will beg for a deal, to be spared so that he may torture the incoming souls not yet cut by monstrosity. There will be no broken seal to re-break because Dean is no longer a righteous man. He is a debased and selfish creature with alcohol for blood and lust for bones. Castiel will leave him in the pit this time because how can an angel, even as dirty and cracked as this angel is, want to raise this mess from hellfire into rebirth? Dean had trouble believing it the first time but now…

I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition. His voice, low and gravelly but so clear in every syllable and nuance, rings clear as day inside Dean’s head. The very first thing he said clearly to him, so full of holy conceit, sometimes echoes from dream to dream, even dreams not involving him—of which there are few, now. That sentence, those twelve words, is one of the things Dean has memorized, filed neatly between Sam’s birthday and the sound of his mother’s voice. 

I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.

He swallows as hard as he can, trying to force down the tidal wave inside him, and closes his eyes, casting them down to the floor. He does not spiral. He does not fall. He simply stands, one arm still held fast in Castiel’s, waiting for divine judgment to crash onto his shoulders and shatter them into bits, break his skeleton and scatter his ribs across the floor. Castiel’s voice comes over and over, repeating inside his skull, bouncing off every which-way, his entrance into Dean’s life an enormous scramble of static and fear and pain. 

I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.

“This is your problem, Dean,” Castiel whispers, mouthing it along to the soundtrack in Dean’s head. “You have no faith.” Slowly, slowly he lowers their arms until he barely clings to Dean’s wrist with his fingertips.

“Get out of my head,” Dean forces out past a blockage in his throat. “Stop that, stop—!”

“Good things do happen, Dean,” he continues, his voice barely there. “What’s the matter?” He takes a pause, and Dean’s not positive whether he’s doing it for dramatic effect or truly searching his soul again, but the answer remains the exact damned same, regardless.  
“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

“Stop it!” Dean shouts, palms squeezing his head so hard he hopes it will burst on the floor and all of the sound and the emotion inside will rush out like smoke or water and leave him peaceful in death. “Stop it, Cas, I can’t—I’m not—”

“Not what?” Castiel demands, raising his voice for the first time. “What can’t you do?”

Dean slams his fists against the table, hot rage prickling his skin and flashing through his muscles, leaving him ready to brawl or to flee or to scream or to something because he has to alleviate the tension that has him so strung out or someone will die, surely, because it has to be impossible for one being to be so full of turmoil.

“I’m not used to feeling like this!” he snaps harshly. “I’ve never--” He breaks down into a sob and shuts it right back up again, sucking it back into his body and letting the pressure gauge creep higher. He’s past the red danger zone and is well into colorless no-man’s-land, about to blow.

“Never what?”

“Even in Hell, Cas, there wasn’t so much inside of me.” He remains hunched, a curl of anguish incarnate, his legs wobbling. “There was fear, and pain, and God almighty there was rage, but even then there wasn’t—it wasn’t this.”

“What do you mean?” Cas steps even closer until they are a hair’s breadth from touching. “Why are you suddenly so afraid of my judgment? My holy wrath? Dean, I am not the one who—”

“I’m scared!” he whispers. “Cas, I’m scared, dammit, and—” Cas takes his shoulder hard, his fingers overlaying the print of his own hand, and shoves him. Dean’s face is bared to the light and Cas stares straight down into his soul—rather, that rotten hole inside him that used to be one.

“Don’t,” Dean says weakly, but he doesn’t know if it’s a prayer or a whisper or maybe just nothing, maybe an idea lost in the buzzing within his skull. Castiel, the blue-eyed angel, holds his gaze so tightly, as tightly as he holds his shoulder, as tightly as he presses them against the edge of the sink in this dirty fucking bathroom of a shit motel in a tiny, no-one-has-ever-heard-of-it town, and he’s so hard and wanting for an Angel of the Lord.

“You are not frightened of being judged before God and held to your actions. You are not afraid of being cast from Heaven down into the pit. You have no fear of Hell.”

Cas moves until their fronts are aligned, hip to hip and breast to breast, and Dean can feel warm air moving from the angel’s lungs.

“You fear rejection. You fear my rejection.”

“Cas…” Dean looks away, blinking back tears, and struggles to inhale. He feels as though he’s been hit by a bus and the air knocked from his chest. The angel’s presence is stifling, the room too hot, and he’s ashamed that the closeness is making him crave a body, crave carnal fornication, crave a solid, hard, fuck, but no matter how many girl’s he’s slept with he cannot find the satisfaction he needs—!

“Let me bring you your relief,” Cas whispers against his mouth. “I did it once. Let me do it again.” Castiel takes his mouth, lips searching hungrily, molding themselves to Dean’s, and God help him he responds in kind, whimpering just barely when Cas pulls away again.

“Let me save you, Dean Winchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I add a fifth and final chapter of smut? It will be shameless PWP, no doubt. Is that a want? Or should I just stop here?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "The Ballad of Mona Lisa" by Panic! At the Disco.
> 
> All rights reserved.


End file.
